by Jillian Hart
"But your hand needs tending." She popped out of the dark doorway, standing just at the edge of the lamplight. Somehow the light found her, chasing away the shadows and the dark, burnishing her with a faint golden haze. It highlighted the high, delicate slant of her cheekbones and the dear curve of her chin, it glistened on the lush, full Cupid's bow of her upper lip and on the perfect lushness of her bottom lip. Yes, that was absolutely a mouth made for kissing, and the need pounded through him, raging more powerfully than the blizzard outside, threatening to overtake every bit of his common sense and self-discipline.
Miles let out a growl of anger, or maybe it was one of defeat, and took the bottle and mug with him.
"I don't need anything from you," he told her sternly, a little desperately. It took every scrap of strength he had to walk away from her and to keep going. But he did it.
Heart strumming, body quaking, his blood so hot he could melt a glacier with a single touch, he stormed through the house. He just couldn’t be around her. He wasn't strong enough to stop whatever power she had on him, a power he was never going to give in to. And, damn it, that was one vow he was going to keep, he promised himself as he heard her finishing up in the kitchen and later as he listened to her slippers pad right outside his door.
It took all the might he had not to open that door and reach for her.
* * *
Maggie woke to the sound of silence. She lay in her warm bed, eyes feeling sandy because she'd obviously slept, since she was waking up, but she'd been awake for hours after Miles pounded away from her in the kitchen as if she'd been a carrier of the bubonic plague. Not exactly the reaction she'd wanted from him.
Her chest felt tight, making it hard to breathe. I don't need anything from you, he'd said starkly, definitively, leaving no room for misinterpretation. He'd meant it. That was one hundred percent proof he didn't feel anything special for her. And here she was, with her heart bright, aching and wishing. Oh, it was wishing.
Not that she was going to give in and listen to those whispers. Nope. No way, no how. Not even a little bit. She was blind and deaf to them. She was not going down that road to heartbreak by caring for a man who didn't want her.
Resolved, she threw back the covers and bounded out of bed. Brr, it was icy cold. The instant press of wintry air shivered through her, and her teeth chattered. She whipped off her nightgown, pulled on a red calico work dress over her woolen underwear and yanked on her shoes. She dug a cardigan sweater that Emma had made for her out of her satchel.
Oh, her sisters. Dee would still be sleeping. Abby would be up and around humming cheerily as she broke the ice on the water pail. Emma would be shushing her while she stood at the stove, starting coffee. As for Callie, who knew what she was up to? Maggie waggled her brows. Perhaps Callie was still asleep in bed with her handsome new husband...or not, she thought with a smile as she picked up the pitcher by the washbasin and realized the water inside was frozen solid.
No surprise there. She cast a glance at the stone fireplace, where the fire had gone out. It would be too much of a bother and a waste of wood to light it now, when she would only be heading downstairs, so she took the pitcher with her as she headed to the door, intending to let it melt next to the cook stove in the kitchen.
The hallway was silent, so she padded lightly past the closed bedroom doors of the sleeping McClintock men so as not to disturb them. On her way down the elaborate, winding staircase she caught her first sight of the morning—the new blush before dawn painting clouds and the pristine white mountain peaks with a faint purple and rose glow. The world spread out in solemn beauty as if the forest itself was still sleeping. The majestic evergreens stood without a breath of wind to disturb them.
Snow was everywhere. Maggie wandered over to the first window she came to and stared out in wonder. She felt awed at the magnificence of nature, feeling so small against the grandeur of six-foot high snow drifts sculpted by the wind, of the shadowy snow mantling the world, with white ripples and waves in its surface. It looked like an enormous snowy ocean frozen in time. The mountains rose up, shimmering white as the sun peered over the peaks, throwing long slants of golden light across the snow, making it glitter, making it shine.
It was a beautiful world, she thought, turning away from the window and heading straight for the kitchen. She set the pitcher down on the table where she'd written her letter last night, where Miles had found her.
Remembering, she knelt in front of the cook stove. She'd been embarrassed by her attraction to him, she remembered. Very embarrassed. She carefully uncovered the banked ashes and added kindling from the nearby wood box. The more time she spent with him, the stronger her desire for him. A very sexual desire. Not that she would have to worry about it for much longer, since she would be leaving today. The storm had stopped, and as soon as the tracks were cleared, the eastbound train would be whisking her away.
Yes, she was really looking forward to it. She'd been in the little railroad town of Clark Creek for the wedding. How happy Callie had seemed, beaming and glowing with bliss. Not to mention the night before the wedding when Callie had tiptoed into her boardinghouse room (where they'd all squeezed in to sleep on the sofa and on mattresses on the floor). Callie may have been careful not to wake anyone, but Maggie had heard her come in. Callie had been grinning ear to ear, too, radiating a kind of intense contented satisfaction from sex with her husband-to-be that looked pretty good.
Pretty good indeed. Maggie added small sticks of wood to the blaze, letting the growing heat bathe her face, wanting that kind of bliss. She recalled every detail of the sex act that Callie had described to her in whispers. Heated, silken touches. Intense, soul-bending orgasms. Longingly, Maggie sighed, plopping another piece of cedar onto the growing fire. Didn't she deserve that kind of pleasure? Didn't everyone, at least once in their lives? It didn't seem fair that she would never get to experience it.
"What are you doing up so early, little missy?" John wandered into the kitchen, bundled in a gray flannel shirt and wool trousers. His hazel eyes glinted a warm greeting. "You don't know the rules around here, so I'll forgive you this once."
"Rules?" She looked up, surprised, afraid she'd done something wrong. "I'm just starting the fire."
"Yes, and that's the wrong thing right there." John ambled over, voice kind, and gestured her out of the way. "The fires are a man's job. We start them, we tend them, we chop the wood for them. Do you get my meaning? Let me do the heavy work, or you and I are gonna have a problem."
"It's not heavy work." She rolled her eyes. "I'm perfectly capable and besides, what was my choice? To sit here in the cold until one of you men came along to light the fire?"
"The choice would have been to stay in bed until the house was warm." John loaded sticks of wood into the crook of one arm and knelt before the open stove door, studying the crackling flames. "Although you did a fine job. I'm betting that comes from being on your own with your sisters, with no man to look out for you."
"Well, we didn't need a man for that." Smiling back, Maggie dusted the bits of moss and bark off her hands and hauled the coffee grinder out of its cabinet. "We were perfectly able to figure out how to light a match and add kindling and wood, which we chopped."
"No!" John looked faint as he loaded the cedar chunks into the stove. "Well, if you go anywhere near the ax out back, my dear, I'll have an apoplexy. Don't do that to an old man."
"I'll try and restrain myself with the ax." She bit back a grin, setting the crock of coffee beans onto the counter. Oh, she really liked this man. His humor and gentleman's honor reminded her of Gramps so very much. Her heart gave a little pang. "Do you want coffee, or would you prefer tea?"
"Coffee for me and Miles, tea for Winston." John gave the stove's door a push to close it. "I—"
He didn't get to finish his thought, since a rapid-fire knock on the back door interrupted.
"That'll be the milk delivery." John crossed the room. "Howie brings by a bottle every morning.
Miles likes fresh milk, so be sure and pour him a glass for breakfast."
"Okay." That was easy enough. Maggie couldn’t help feeling a little excited by the prospect of seeing Callie. She'd fix the men breakfast and start packing.
"'Mornin', John!" a jovial male voice called out. "That was some storm last night. Did it keep you awake too?"
"Nah, I slept like a baby, but look at those drifts." John chuckled, drawing a winter coat he must have snared from a wall hook around him tightly. "How was the road this morning?"
"A challenge, but you know me. I always deliver," the robust voice answered with a good dose of humor.
Curious, Maggie inched over to get a better look at him around John's wide shoulder. The milkman was slender, not nearly as tall as Miles but not exactly short. As he handed over a milk bottle, his breath rose in great clouds above his head. A hand-knit navy cap hid most of his red hair. He had a rectangle face, friendly green eyes and freckles, giving him an over-all pleasant, good-natured look. He wore a bulky black coat and a navy scarf around his neck. She guessed that he was probably around her own age. When he spotted her, his gaze lit up.
"Why, who do we have here?" He tipped his cap, knocking it askew on his head. "Hello, there. You must be the new housekeeper."
"No, sorry, just a guest." She shrugged, realizing she hadn't brushed and braided her hair yet. "I'm Maggie."
"Good to meet you, Miss Maggie." He bowed dashingly, but his expression was sincere. Not a lady's man, but a good, salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. "What are you doing in Pine Haven?"
"Chester Collins played a trick on her and pretended he wanted her to marry him," John answered for her, his tone disparaging. "That lowlife. Poor Maggie came all this way for a husband, only to find herself stranded."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that." Howie shook his head from side to side. "Don't be too dismayed, beautiful Miss Maggie. There are plenty of bachelors in this town who'd be honored to have a lady like you for a wife."
"Why, thank you." His kindness meant a lot, since she was feeling a little on the unwanted side.
"Ever since Barney, part owner of the sawmill, decided to write for a mail-order bride," Howie explained, "I've been trying to get my courage up to place an advertisement for a wife. It turned out real well for Barney. She wasn't the prettiest thing, but she sure is one of the nicest women I've met. She always has a cinnamon roll for me when I deliver their milk order."
"I think you'd make a very nice husband for someone. You should place an advertisement. Any woman would be lucky to have you for her husband." And she meant it. It was easy to see the kindness in his eyes, his good-natured personality and a touch of humility—which was a very good trait in a man.
"I do have a pretty good job." Howie seemed encouraged and tossed her an almost handsome grin. "It's not what men make working for the railroad and I'd never afford a place even a bit this grand, but I do all right. Why, thank you for your encouragement, Miss Maggie."
Before she could answer, John frowned. "Let's cut this short. I'm getting cold, and Maggie had better get breakfast going before Miles comes down."
"I heard about the trouble." Howie nodded sympathetically, taking a step back. "How is Miles this morning?"
"What trouble?" John asked, scratching his head, no longer as eager to get rid of Howie. "What are you talking about?"
"I saw Bert Collins on my way here." Howie's brow furrowed, as if puzzled. "He said he'd woken up this morning and Chester was still loopy from the fight with Miles."
"What fight with Miles?" John demanded, his baritone booming with concern. "When did this happen? It was blizzarding last night."
"I know. Bert said that Miles burst into their place, stormed over to Chester and beat him up." Howie bit his bottom lip, as if he didn't enjoy being the bearer of such bad news. "Bert said he was pretty sure it really had happened, because it was before he opened his second bottle of whiskey for the night."
"Why would he go and do something like that?" John demanded of no one in particular. "That's not like Miles at all. Miles is like a glacier. Frozen solid. We haven't been able to get anything more than a few growls out of him for a year now."
"Funny." Another deep baritone rumbled from the archway. A hint sarcastic, really more of a growl than a voice.
Maggie spun around to face the man. His hair was tousled, thick and dark, not as if he'd forgotten to comb it this morning, but as if he'd carelessly combed it without a mirror. The effect was sexy, but not nearly as tempting as the dark shadow of whiskers along his square jaw. He looked dangerous, even in the kiss of the morning sunlight spilling through the window, across the kitchen and onto him, emphasizing every contoured muscle in his arms and upper torso. He wore a blue flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up and denims that emphasized his long, strong legs.
She tried to swallow, but couldn’t because her throat had gone dry.
"Hope you're all right!" Howie called through the doorway, taking another step back. "Well, it was a real pleasure to meet you, Miss Maggie. Maybe I'll come back and pay you a visit."
"Well, I'm leaving town today, but it's been nice to meet you," she answered as John closed the door firmly. The older man's weathered face darkened with concern as he marched into the kitchen, milk bottle in hand. He set it on the table.
"Is it true?" John demanded. "Did you ride over and punch Chester?"
"Yes, and I'd do it again." Miles didn't look at her. In fact, he gave her a wide berth as he circled around her. "I taught him a lesson he won't soon forget."
Maggie's chest ached a little bit more. She tore her gaze away from him, remembering the coffee grinder she still clutched. Well, she was going to make him the best breakfast he'd ever had. She set the grinder on the counter and reached for the coffeepot. Very fond feelings flooded her heart, feelings she could no more hold back than the ocean could the tide.
Chapter Eight
"That was a delicious breakfast, Maggie." Winston tossed his cloth napkin onto his plate and pushed back from the table just enough to pat his belly. "I'm plumb full. I haven't eaten like that since we left New York."
"That's the truth," John agreed with a satisfied nod as he reached for his coffee cup and took a sip. "You're a pleasure to have around, missy."
"It's a pleasure to be here," she confessed, and in more ways than one. The view was beautiful from the dining room, gazing out at the jagged, brilliantly white mountains that seemed close enough to touch. Sunlight glistened on the snowy boughs of thousands of trees, carpeting the mountainside and glittered along the slopes of the yard, like a million tiny twinkling stars. The sky was a breathless, clear, cold blue. She'd never seen anything as captivating.
Unless it was the man seated across the table from her. Miles reached for the coffeepot sitting on a trivet and poured himself another cup, ignoring her presence. To him, she may not have been there at all, he hadn't so much as said a word or glanced at her from the second he'd stepped foot inside the dining room. The bruises on his knuckles reminded her of what he'd done last night. For her. His hand was less swollen this morning, although he mildly winced when he set down the coffeepot. It must still be hurting him. Her pulse gave a little flutter.
Remember, you aren't going to fall for him, Maggie. She set down her fork with a clink on her plate and reached for her own cup, still steaming and sweetened just right. While she drank, she peeked at Miles over her rim. He looked darker this morning, more shadowed, his handsome face drawn, deep lines bracketing his mouth. Dour furrows dug into his forehead as he stirred sugar into his cup.
"How's the hangover?" John asked, amused as he drained the last drops of coffee from his cup.
"No comment." Miles sounded annoyed and maybe a bit embarrassed as he stirred in another spoonful of sugar. His hazel gaze arrowed across the table, pinning hers. The corner of his mouth tugged downward. "I don't usually drink like this."
"I never thought you did," she said gently, only now remembering the big mug of scotch he'd pou
red last night. He'd taken both the mug and the bottle up to his bed. She arched one brow, cradling her cup in both hands. "I wouldn't peg you as a drunk the way Chester is, for instance."
"Funny." Miles shook his head, as if he wasn't humored in the slightest. "There's only one reason I drink. Women."
"That'll do it," John agreed, setting down his empty cup. "Oh, the times your grandmother drove me to drink, I couldn’t count them all. Every time I take a drink of scotch, I think of her. Half the time she was waving something at me—a fry pan, a broom, one time a fireplace poker—and the rest of the time she was, well—guess that's not polite table conversation."
He blushed pink to the tips of his ears.
"I don't want to hear this," Winston said gruffly, launching out of his chair. "Although I can't say I disagree with you. My marriage was a lot like that too. My Alice was a remarkable woman," he added, glancing Maggie's way. "Which is why it's such a puzzle to us that Miles has a bad opinion of marriage."
"And women in general," John chimed in. "How much of my scotch is left, boy?"
"Not enough." Miles stared into his coffee cup.
Was it her imagination, or was he studying her through his dark lashes? Her stomach gave a deep, low twinge, a feeling of longing. Of wanting. Now it was her turn to blush. She took another long drink of coffee, swallowing hard, feeling exposed, even though none of them could know of her body's reaction to the man?
"You had best get Maggie to the depot. And while you're in town, stop by the saloon and replace that bottle you drank." John sounded stern as he pushed to his feet. "That scotch gives an old man comfort on a cold, lonely night while he's waiting to die."
"The guilt isn't going to work, old man," Miles answered gruffly, rolling his eyes. But there was affection there, too. Great affection. "But I'll get you two bottles. Will that make you happy?"
"It's a start." John circled around the room, and when Miles couldn’t see he tossed Maggie a wink. "And I think we need groceries. That will give you something useful to do, Miles."